My name is Kera Collins, and I would do anything for a golden nod.Secrets Don’t Keep Synopsis:
At first glance, my life appears perfect: the best friends, the best school, the attention of Dex Albright, the deliciously irresistible grandson to the Headmaster. All I need is the prestige behind La Boheme, an elite secret society formed within the walls of my school, and my life would be complete. Once I’m in, I’ll be the one with all of the secrets.
It’s just…no one told me these secrets could kill.
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I sigh and let her pull me toward the dorm, turning once to shout our room number at Miles. We pass by the lacrosse team and I attempt to play it cool. They however, make every point to let us know we are seen.
“Damn, Season. You spend time in the sun this summer? Was it a topless beach? Can I see?”
She pauses mid-step and wraps her finger around a curl. It’s her nervous tic. I wonder briefly what caused it and then remember the picture that made its way across social media this summer. Season on a beach, topless, smiling at a faceless boy behind the camera.
“Asshole,” she mutters.
“Don’t worry about them, S. It’s just Logan and Trent.”
She nods and walks away, her eyes losing a bit of their luster from before. I make a mental note to ask her about it later, and press my lips together. After three years of dealing with these guys, you have to know how to get rid of them. Just don’t respond. Don’t react. Don’t take the bait.
And then…
“Looking good, Collins. Those legs look just as scrumptious as I remember.”
So much for cool. I snarl and raise my middle finger. “Learn some etiquette, inbred.”
Logan raises an eyebrow and sticks his thumbs in his front pockets.
“Those are some pretty harsh words coming from such a pretty mouth. Then again, I always knew that mouth was dirtier than most people believed.” He winks and nudges Trent. “I have proof.”
Trent chuckles and slaps Logan's arm. "Yeah, brother! I bet you do!" And then he bites his lip while watching Season walk away. He's seriously three seconds away from touching himself.
Douchecanoe.
I level them with a stare.
“You have no proof.”
Logan rubs his jawline and catches the eye of a first year walking past us. She giggles and waves. He acknowledges her with a quick lick of his lips and a nod. I roll my eyes. He turns his attention back to me and shrugs.
“You sure about that, Collins?”
I swallow my hesitation because I know he’ll only use it to his advantage. I can’t think about this right now. Instead, I flick my hand, brushing him off, and turn to walk away.
But not before I make eye contact with Mystery Boy. A slow smile crosses his face and I find myself lost in the broodiness of his eyes. Normally, I need color. Brown-eyed boys are typically boring and lack that vitality that keeps me going. But these eyes? Damn.
I swallow and return the smile and race to catch up with Season, already a few steps ahead of me.
“Hey, Season. Who’s this new guy?” I ask her surreptitiously, leaning over and talking at her shoulder as if I’m inspecting the shreds of cotton dangling from my cut offs.
She ignores me, but I see a slight shake of her head before she turns and smiles. Our code for tell you later. Her eyes are bright again; whatever ghost Trent brought up has vanished from her body language. I breathe easier when I hear the excitement in her voice.
Elora Ramirez Bio:
Elora Ramirez has been telling stories her whole life.
It started when she was four, when she taught herself how to read and write as a way to entertain herself while her grandmother kicked and danced in aerobics class. She cut her teeth on books from Dr. Seuss and writing anywhere she could find the space -- including her Fischer Price kitchenette, the pages of picture books, and Highlights Magazines.
She's matured a bit since then, now choosing to write in the margins of her books and on the mirrors of her apartment ideas and thoughts surrounding story and what makes us human. You can read more on her blog, eloranicole.com
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